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Old Man Vacanas 
from Blue Sonoma



The old man

to whom I’m married

hits the sack again

after breakfast.


A black bear

out in the rain

on Blueberry Flats.


Is it too wet

to hibernate? The muddy creek



By lunch, he’s up.

The sky’s no lighter – candles

with our tea.


Tell me, can a soul

fatten up for winter?


The old man who picks up the phone

does not get your message.

Call again.


Please call again.


The cats leave squirrel guts

on the Tibetan rug.

Augury I cannot read.


You’ve got to talk with me.


I scrape glistening coils

into a dust pan,

spit on drops of blood and spray ammonia.

The blood spreads into the white wool.


I am so sick of purring beasts.


Don’t tempt me, old man.

Today I have four arms

and weapons in each hand.


The old man

takes his choppers out

when chicken sticks to them.


He parks them in a glass

of blue fizz.


DNA from fossil bones

tells us we’re siblings to Neanderthals—


and the small arrangements

we make? Language, travel, art? Props


in a little, local, theatre of light.

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